A bookkeeper silently tapped away her life at the see and saw of what they pay
they say the meaning of life is to make the fat man fatter
but I doubt he even lives for that

She taps away at numbers swirling
on a dark rainy night of Halloween
with numbers blurring, she grits her teeth 
just outside a costume party is whirling

Whirling revelers reel and wheel
through an eighty-five thousand dollar shin-dig
the lights are right and the music's tight
there are prizes and games and revelry

Silently the bookkeeper gasps and grabs
at the last thread of her breath
no one hears her, and she drifts away
drifts through the living dressed as the dead

She joins the party to real and wheel
but finds it as fake as the fat man
a shabby old warehouse in the ghetto
facade on dump playing at gentile

The revelry fakery decadence and noise
rasp against the new dead soul 
until she drifts through the costumes
and drifts through the walls

She didn't drift far before she found
a living soul real enough to see her
barely living under tarp and tent
in the black inky rain of the city street

Genuine pain and genuine death
mingled and poured into all souls day
as the night brought shelter to the living
and the dead in a meeting place in between

The bookkeeper was glad at last to be free
of decadence 
a cruel and false whirl